Postcard killers

Chapter 99

Sunday, June 20

Copenhagen, Denmark

It was raining.

Dessie was sitting at a table by the window of a packed cafe on Stroget, a long pedestrian street, watching people hurry past with umbrel as and raincoats. She was surrounded by families with young kids out for the weekend, the youngsters sleeping in buggies or sitting in kids' seats and gurgling while their mothers drank lattes and their dads had a Sunday beer.

"Is this seat taken?"

She looked up.

A young father with tousled blond hair and a little girl in one arm had already taken hold of the chair opposite her.

"Yes," she said quickly. "I'm waiting for someone. Sorry. He'l be here shortly."

The father let go of the chair and gave her a sympathetic look. "Sure. No problem."

She had been sitting at the table on her own for over an hour now. But she actual y was waiting for somebody.

Nils Thorsen, a crime reporter on the Danish paper Extra-Avisen had been chosen as the Postcard Kil ers' Danish contact: a position he was as enthusiastic about as she had been in Sweden.

During the past twenty-four hours, the two of them had gone through al the details, pictures, and evidence that Jacob had left behind when he disappeared.

About an hour ago Thorsen had been cal ed back to the office: a letter had arrived in the afternoon mail, addressed to him. White, rectangular, capital letters.

Dessie watched the father go back to the mother. He said something and nodded in her direction. The woman snickered, and they both laughed.

She looked down at the table again and pretended she hadn't seen them.

The fact was, she had a lot in common with Nils Thorsen. They had the same profession, the same interests, and even the same moral principles. He 132 wasn't bad-looking either. A bit thin on top, maybe…

Why couldn't she feel the same way about him as she did about Jacob Kanon? God, she was starting to get loony, wasn't she? It was pretty pathetic, but it was out of her control now.

Slowly she wound her hair up, fastening it with a bal point pen, and went back to looking at the postcard in front of her.

Tivoli. The amusement park in the middle of Copenhagen. Posted while the Rudolphs were being held in Stockholm.

She had to face facts here.

However much she wanted to believe Jacob, his theory just didn't make sense.

Sylvia and Malcolm Rudolph weren't guilty.

Not of sending this card, and not of sending the letter that Nils and the police here in Copenhagen had presumably opened by now.

Why had she let herself believe it?

People wil let themselves be convinced of anything, she supposed.

Anything was better than a life without meaning. That was why religion existed, and footbal team fan clubs, and volunteer torturers in the service of dictators.

As both a researcher and a journalist, she had regarded questioning everything as her guiding principle. Investigating. Thinking critical y. Not taking anything for granted.

Al at once a longing burned her like a hot iron.

Oh, Jacob, why aren't you here? How did you get into my head this way?

How did you get into my heart?